


A Caressing Voice

by Niargem



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Minor Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niargem/pseuds/Niargem
Summary: In which Findekáno, burdened with grief, spent sleepless nights singing to his unconscious cousin after his rescue, hoping beyond all hope that that may rid Maitimo of harrowing dreams, that it shall bring him comfort until he wakes.





	A Caressing Voice

There is this lingering sense of foreboding that he could not shake off from his heart. He breathed in deeply, forcing himself to calm, forcing his feet to move, and forcing himself to still the trembling of his fingers that gripped his sleeves, as his hazy gaze stared at the flap of the tent that hid his cousin from his sight.

 

Shuffling can be heard, and soft murmurs from the healers burdened by the responsibility of curing someone they now loathe, searing anger that still clutched to their chest, a pain left behind in the grinding ice, still far too close for the chill to thaw.

 

Findekáno breathed in again, the cold wind bringing with it the scent of fresh pine from trees, the scent of a distant rain that shall come sooner rather than later. But he still stood still, gazing at the soft shuffling of the flap, awaiting news he is hopeful to hear. Ever did he cling to that hope, for if he did not, how else can he fend off the darkness of despair?

 

And how else can he reason cutting off the hand of a friend?

 

So that, in hope, he may still live?

 

If Maitimo’s spirit leaves, then he had made his last moments in suffering needlessly, when he could have ended it quickly. 

 

His screams still echo in his ears, always sounding loud in his mind, claiming him and letting tears spill without his knowledge. 

 

All the praises of his kin, of his bravery, of his guts, of his cunning, and the scolding due to his recklessness and uncautionary tendencies, matters not. In front of the frightening apprehension that still stirs in his veins even after he found his dearest cousin, it matters not.

 

And when suddenly, the flap opened, and a healer came out with eyes that were unreadable, stance that was rigid with hands dipped in red, a cold wind flew. He shivered.

 

The elf looked at him, eyes wide, stopping subsequently at his tracks, “My lord Findekáno, you’re---”

 

Findekáno held his breath, and asked the question he feared the answer to, “How is he?”

 

The mention of Maitimo made his eye squint, but he replied with care, “For now, he is stable. But we shall keep an eye on him for the next couple of weeks, for he is still far too weak.”

 

“May I go to him?”

 

“You may.” The elf nodded, “But you must rest first, my lord.”

 

Findekáno shook his head, fingers gripping his sleeves, jaw clenched with his heart hanging onto the ground, “I shall not rest until he stands again.”

 

-

 

During the following nights, seldom did he leave his side. He would watch the faint rise of his chest, of the soft breaths that escaped his wounded lips. He would trail his eyes upon the faint, older scars upon his arm that did not heal as they should have. He would faintly move red strands from his face, sleeping bereft of any signs of peace, and always did his heart fall from that sight.

 

Other nights, he would sing to him, humming an old tune from fairer days. Words leaving his lips gently, true to the song, yet at times he would have the need to change them. He would bring his harp, play a tune of comfort, though at times he was unsure if he did it for Maitimo, or if he did it to comfort himself. Perhaps, it was both.

 

And always did he yearn to hear Maitimo sing to him again, to hear his voice that spoke words beyond pain, beyond suffering, to hear him speak not of death. He cared no longer if he was abandoned, bore no grudge or hurt, bore no ill will if he was betrayed.

 

All he yearned now was to see his emerald eyes gaze at him again, and his voice that shall soothe and heal him beyond any healing arts of the Eldar.

 

And so, he spent all those sleepless nights singing to his cousin, hoping beyond all hope that that may rid Maitimo of harrowing dreams.

 

-

 

Nolofinwë came during one of those nights. He sat beside Findekáno and asked all that he already knew. He looked at his nephew, eyes wearing a mask that Findekáno can see right through, and he held the hands of his father in comfort.

 

“He shall be alright.” Nolofinwë told him, though it seemed more he told it to himself.

 

“I am holding on to that.” Findekáno said.

 

“I know you are burdened still with his right hand.” his father followed, eyes now drifting towards his son, “Know you have done what is needed to be done, more than what any of us could have. Do not burden yourself with what has been left behind.”

 

He knew that his father spoke true, words that came to be known as wise and yet, they did not have it in their heart to accept it. Perhaps in the distant years, they shall, but not today. He knows they are incapable of letting go.

 

Of those that were slain in the the grinding ice, of those that they slew in the shores of Alqualondë, of those they left behind that took the road back to their homes in Tirion, the last of their twinkling lanterns fading behind hills still clear today in the eyes of the Exiled.

 

And of an even more recent pain, of those they lost in Lammoth, of the loss of his brother.

 

He bid his thoughts halt, for it was a memory too fresh to speak about. He sees it limpidly in the eyes of Nolofinwë, knowing that the same thoughts had crossed his mind. He knew it to be a burden that shall never be lifted off from his shoulders.

 

Words they are, and words they forever will remain, though they shall move on one day, their hearts shall still be burdened with it. That he was certain of.

 

And as he looked at Maitimo’s tired face, Findekáno knew, as well, he carries a weight in his heart that is far heavier than both of them shall ever know.

 

-

 

Next, Turukáno and Findarato came one night, amidst one of his songs, of the same song he sang in the midst of the darkness of Thangorodrim.

 

Findarato offered for Findekáno to rest, to sleep, for he still has duties to attend to in the morning. But he declined. He had proved himself capable, and he could not bring himself to summon sleep, whether he desires to or not.

 

And so, Findarato simply sang with him. His fair voice hanging in the air, kept and hesitant, not bearing the same weight he had always given his songs, as much as Findekáno’s voice was soft and not as strong as it had been before. 

 

Though throughout it all, Findekáno noticed Turukáno was silent the whole time. 

 

“I feel the need to tell you this,” Findarato said afterwards, “Maitimo is not the only one soothed by your songs every night.”

 

“Is he soothed, indeed?” Findekáno asked.

 

“I think,” Findarato offered him a comforting smile, “Does he not look less pale? And the light is returning to his face, little by little.”

 

“You are delusional.” Turukáno said beside him, but Findarato remained firm to what he said.

 

And Findekáno would cling to every hope he can find.

 

-

 

The next sennight, Macalaurë and Tyelkormo arrived. The minstrel was close to weeping when he entered Maitimo’s temporary quarters, his kin had said, for Findekáno was not there when they arrived, during the afternoon when the blinding sun was in its highest. 

 

They shall stay for the night, they have informed Nolofinwë, and wait for days more until the rest of their brothers arrive.

 

It was a chance for Findekáno to rest, to not sat idly by Maitimo’s side since his rescue. And it was a chance he took, though he hesitated, but he understood and respected, indeed, the privacy that his cousins shall need with their brother. And he was comforted by the thought that they shall look after him.

 

But when Findekáno had slept, his sleep was troubled deeply by three towering peaks of black mountains, and thick, grey clouds that covered any residue of light from the sky. And there, in the highest peak, he saw the black chain drenched in dry blood, and the hand that is fastened to it still. Before the sun rose behind the hills, he woke up weeping in the darkness, keeping silent his voice in the chance that someone might hear.

 

When his tears stopped, his feet took him outside. The cold wind that left from the mountains greeted him, though his thoughts were still caged in that dream. The air did nothing to comfort him, and not even the soft crickets that broke the silence of the night slithered into his mind.

 

There, beside the lake, he saw faint, small golden lights floating above the shore. It did not cease its movements though Findekáno walked through the bushes, its light reflecting upon the silk of his clothing, and the skin of his fingers as he rose them to catch one upon his palm.

 

And it stood there, a brief light in the darkness, before it flew away to join its many companions in their silent dance of the night.

 

Softly, he started to sing: a faint, pathetic voice that he was not used to hearing, but it was what left his lips as he gazed out into the open, of the fireflies there, of the streaming waters, and the dark mountains that disturbed his slumber moments before.

 

He knew not why he sang, but he thought it to be a song of comfort, for himself. He found it usual as of recent, wherein he will simply sang, no reason as to why, but he did.

 

And one particular firefly lit red when he finished, and he was reminded of his cousin who lie still unawake.

 

“I thought you were supposed to be resting?” 

 

Findekáno turned at the sudden voice, “I rested, though now I’m awake. Did I wake you, Macalaurë?”

 

“I figured it was you singing,” Macalaurë said, eyes squinting as he blinked off sleep, “It’s strange. It felt so long ago since I heard your voice; it changed.”

 

“Forgive me then,” Findekáno let a bittersweet smile fall on his lips, “For your ears to have heard my spent voice, and for waking you.”

 

“I have heard of how you sing nightly,” His cousin took a firefly in his palm, the edges of his tired face lit by the golden light, much more worn than he saw it before, “And I do not think anyone wakes up from it, rather, it is a lullaby that lulls them to sleep peacefully.”

 

“Shall I take that as a compliment?”

 

“Yes, indeed,” Macalaurë nodded, a glint in his eye, though it was rid of its usual light, “Though perhaps, it is also the reason why Maitimo still has not woken up. You always sing him lullabies.”

 

Findekáno huffed at the claim, though his heart fell. Leaning his back at the bark of a tree beside him, he regarded his cousin, “Pray tell, do you think I must stop? Perhaps, he’ll wake when I do.”

 

His cousin nodded, “Perhaps, then our King shall return to us in mind also. But that shall risk what peace I could see from time to time that touched his face, so sing freely.”

 

Findekáno looked down in deep thought, as they stood there many a while, silently listening to the soughing of the wind, and gazing at the fireflies who travelled through the lake, casting a brilliant glow upon the already moonlit waters.

 

“Do you really think he hears me?” Findekáno asked softly, a question that slipped from his lips that he did not intend, for his heart felt hollow, and doubt clung to it as the right hand that was still fastened to the peak of Thangorodrim.

 

Macalaurë gazed at him for a while, before he averted his gaze to the lake, and the small patch of purple and orange light that lit the edges of the hills in the East.

 

“I have heard of the tale of your rescue,” Macalaurë started, voice soft, “And l think he hears you now just as he heard you before,”

 

His cousin looked at him then, and his eyes were firm, looking resolute as he said his next words, “And he will answer your calls, again, when the time comes.”

 

Findekáno gazed at him, and as the sun starts to rise slowly into the morning sky, coating what once was dark blue into a blend of orange and red, he felt a warmth pool into his chest as he absent-mindedly look at the direction of where Maitimo slept.

 

“I shall sing him a song then,” He said, but more so to himself. Macalaurë smiled beside him.

 

“Come then, cousin,” Macalaurë started to walk back, “Let us see Maitimo, and sing him a song.”

 

-

 

Findekáno sat by Maitimo’s side during one, exceptionally warm night. It had been a while since he had sat with him alone, like this, with his harp discarded upon the bedside, his fair humming filling the contents of his room. The lantern that was lit at the corner had a glint to it tonight; it fumed not in rage, but it danced, contained yet brimming with light undiluted, red and orange mingling within the confines of its cage like fireflies upon the shores of Mithrim.

 

Findekáno murmured the words to his song, until his exhaustion finally claimed him, until the weight of his tiredness made his head rest upon the sheet where Maitimo lay.

 

And that was when he felt light fingertips upon his cheek.

 

And the hoarse voice of his cousin who croaked out his name.

 

And the emerald green eyes that peeked underneath thick lashes.

 

“Maitimo,” Findekáno managed, eyes blurring at the intensity of what he felt, of the awe, of the softness that he saw there, on Maitimo’s eyes, mingled still with the affection he thought had been lost with the fire that raged from the other shore.

 

He felt a lingering sense of anguish, relief and excitement that he could not shake off from his heart. He breathed out deeply, now feeling his heart calming down, as he no longer forced his feet to move, as he let his fingers tremble under the weight of Maitimo’s own against it.

 

His eyes filled with piling tears stared at Maitimo’s slow blink, still adjusting his eyes, strands of hair falling from his face as he moved his head to look at Findekáno’s direction, as if to drink in his appearance, making himself believe still he did not wake up to another dream.

 

Then he spoke, slowly, half-dazed still, voice so different and calm as if he just woke up from a peaceful dream, and Findekáno hung to every word that he said,

 

“I knew it was your voice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback makes me a happy soul


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